


various storms and saints

by qiras



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But with a happy ending!, F/M, Molly is brilliant, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Some angst, Unplanned Pregnancy, because it's by me so you know, because... i didn't care, not canon compliant after season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 18:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13416711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qiras/pseuds/qiras
Summary: all molly has ever wanted is the people in her life to be happy and safe. she'd like that too, of course, but she's used to putting other people before herself.





	various storms and saints

**Author's Note:**

> i decided there weren't enough fics covering molly and sherlock after the fall, evidently, and thus this was born. i wrote a lot of this before actually watching the third season, and then decided to just leave it as is, so. thanks for clicking on this!

Living with Sherlock Holmes wasn't what Molly thought it might be. He kept terrible hours, barely talked for what could easily have been days on end, and expected to sleep in her bed, as, “Honestly, Molly, was your couch designed for dwarves?” and, “Your guest mattress has some truly horrifying lumps in it.” That wasn't surprising, of course.

But he also put his dishes in the sink, when he ate, and he didn't always leave his clothes strewn about, and he didn't kick her out of the bed.

In fact, they slept there together.

In fact, they were sleeping together. 

But we aren't quite there yet.

* * *

The day Sherlock was supposed to die, he didn't. The night Sherlock was supposed to be dead, he was at Molly's flat, drinking tea.

When he was supposed to die, Molly saved him. She would do anything for him, no manipulation required, and he thought that's what love must feel like.

(He would do anything for John, for Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, his family, and Molly too. That is what love must be.)

He watched Molly’s pupils dilate when he touched her, saw the quickened breath, the accelerated pulse, and felt an energy he hadn't felt in years, and never sober.  
He wanted... He wanted.... hell, he _wanted_ , in a way he never had before. Pleasing as it was to observe his effect on Molly now, it wasn't enough for him. Adrenaline, left over from everything that had happened, a need to feel alive, to not feel alone... Whatever it was, it was overpowering, and he wondered what the dangers could possibly be in giving in.

Molly felt him, his presence in her home, palpably, a constant burn under her skin, a pressure on her chest, making her cheeks flush, her heart race, her breath quicken. Sherlock would notice, of course, it would be stupid to think otherwise.

Still, when his hand brushed hers... she felt it like a forest fire.

“Molly,” he said, voice rumbling through her like an earthquake.

She turned to him, and his hands were on her waist, hips pressed together. “What do you need?”

“You.”

And then there were lips crashing together, sudden but inevitable, and she was fire and he was ice, but oh, how they _burned_.

They didn't even make it to Molly's bedroom. The first time, at least.

* * *

Sherlock stayed at her flat for three months, and it happened, over and over again. Thinking on it, Molly remembers a line she read once, about the sun loving the moon and dying every night to let him breathe.

Funny. She always does identify with the saddest things.

And she knows that, the emotion behind that line, the way she knows herself. She was careful. Careful not to mention emotion, careful not to ask him why, careful to hold on to what she wanted, she did, even if it killed her.

She means that a little more literally than she might like.

One morning, she woke up, sheets crumpled at her waist, sunlight filtering through her curtains, tea kettle whistling, and a note on the pillow next to her. All it said was, “Don't be concerned. It is highly likely I will come back within a few weeks. SH”.

All things considered, it was really quite considerate of him to leave the note. Molly had half expected him to only disappear without a word. And it was very nice of him to put the kettle on.

She slipped her nightshirt on, pale rose pink cotton soft and tender against her raw skin. Always, always, she felt so vulnerable around him. Molly rubbed at her wrists, remembering the way he'd held them last night, placed them around his neck. There were probably fingerprints on her hips and marks on her chest and stomach.

Her tea-things were laid out on the counter. Of course he knew exactly how she took her tea, had for years. That he must've timed it all to be ready when she woke was slightly more impressive, but no more surprising.

What was surprising was that he'd done it at all. It was... _sweet_.

But she couldn't read into it, wouldn't dare. All she could do, the only thing she could possibly do, was to act normal and go about her life.

After all, if she allowed herself to act different, she couldn't pretend that it didn't affect her.

* * *

It's funny, how easily things are separated into before and after. Before the fall, after the fall. Before she’d slept with Sherlock, after the first time. Before he lived with her, after he left.

“Molly.”

Her eyes blinked open. Before (the fall, they slept together, he left), it would've alarmed her to see a shadowy figure standing above her bed. After, it couldn't phase her. She only rolled over and tugged on his arm, pulling him down to her.

He slipped an arm under her head, pulling her up to meet his lips.

Another part of their odd routine.

Every so often, not predictably, of course, but not quite irregularly, Sherlock will find himself in London. And inevitably, he is in Molly Hooper’s flat, in her bed, even if he never means to be.

A guiding light, a home, his sun... it’s all rather disgustingly sentimental. But he supposes that was how John would refer to it. And he’s certainly a moth drawn to her.

(Fitting, that his light should be someone considered dark and morbid by other people. Their disregard for Molly Hooper was perhaps the best evidence of the ignorance of the average person.)

Molly didn't ask questions, only, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he said, and kissed her more fervently, like he needed to lose himself in her. She understood why, of course.

Sherlock Holmes had died one year ago today.

She let him use her to forget. How could she not? He... he was in such pain, such terrible pain. Molly would do nearly anything for him, she’d proved that. This was nothing. And it didn’t hurt her.

Well, she’d keep telling herself that.

After, he pulled her to his chest. After, he looked at her so softly she thought she might break. After, she asked him, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

After she woke up, she found he was gone. She wasn’t surprised.

* * *

He came back a few times, never regularly, never often, but he came back. She’ll go months without hearing from him, but Mycroft always tells her, every Saturday, that Sherlock is safe. Molly knows that he must be lying, at least parts of the time, but she doesn’t care. Mycroft would tell her if he weren’t coming back, so it’s okay. For now, she’ll take the lie.

Sherlock came back the next year on the anniversary of his fall. She let him into her bed again, even though the look in his eyes made her heart ache, and it was impossible to tell herself that it wasn’t hurting her. But sometimes, she just can't make herself care.

* * *

There are things Molly doesn’t like to think about. Sherlock coming back from the dead is one of them.

Of course she wants him to come back. She does. She wants him to be safe, to be happy. She wants John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg to know they don’t have to grieve, that Sherlock hasn’t left them.

But she doesn’t want to think about how he’ll stop coming to her. How their relationship will change yet again. So she doesn’t.

Molly does her level best not to think at all.

One day, she discovers that not thinking is no longer an option.

A black car pulls up to the curb outside her flat and a tall man steps to her apartment. She knows him, of course. They have tea every Saturday.

“Hi, Mycroft. Tea’s ready,” she says, opening the door.

“Please come with me, Dr. Hooper.” His face is quite expressionless. She is no idiot, and she knows instantly that something is wrong.

He confirms that when he tells her, in the quiet of the dark car, “Someone’s gotten suspicious. They believe that Sherlock may not be dead and that he’s using your flat as a bolthole.”

“Well, he is,” she says, eyebrows raised. “And you did a lot to dispel those suspicions, didn’t you, showing up in a very under the radar black car.”

Mycroft chooses not to dignify that with an answer. “We have a solution. There’s an agent roughly of Sherlock’s height and build. We will color his hair, and he can pretend to be involved with you. It will explain away any time they think they’ve seen Sherlock, and, as an added bonus, you have someone doubling as in-house protection.”

Molly bites her lip. Of course she doesn’t want a stranger living with her, and she chafes at the idea that she can’t protect herself.

“Of course,” Mycroft adds, “it will help Sherlock if people don’t suspect he’s alive.”

He’s manipulating her, she knows he is. The question is whether or not she will let him.

Then, Mycroft looks pointedly at her midsection. “And, I suspect, it will be safer for my niece or nephew.”

* * *

Molly is almost always asleep when Sherlock comes to her in the dark and leaves with the daylight. That time was so different, in ways she was only beginning to realize.

It was fairly early in the evening, still twilight outside. She came home to Chinese takeout steaming on the kitchen table and Sherlock waiting impatiently. He kissed her when she walked in, and it was so domestic, her glass heart groaned like someone’s fist had closed around it and squeezed, just a little too tight.

“How was work?” he asked, and it didn’t do much for the feeling in her chest.

She told him of a rather more interesting death that she’d helped Greg-- “Lestrade,” she said in response to his blank look-- solve.

“The incompetence of the Yard astounds me,” he scoffed. “That’s a five, generously.”

Molly raised an eyebrow, and he backtracked quickly. “Of course, I’m not surprised you could solve it. You’re much more intelligent than anyone else currently working with the Yard. And,” he added, ”probably Gerald, too.”

A strange sort of compliment from anyone else, yes, but this was Sherlock. All things considered, it was quite nice. The whole evening was.

She wanted to cry.

Sherlock kissed her furiously. They had sex on her kitchen counter before they managed to move to the bedroom.

He always was more reckless than usual on the anniversaries of his fall, remembering that he was supposed to be dead, everyone thought him so. It burned inside him, and he needed to do something to extinguish is.

Molly let him, she always did, and she wonders sometimes if her entire legacy will be Sherlock Holmes’s pushover.

Usually, she had condoms, even though she was on the pill. That night, she didn’t, and neither of them cared.

He was gone when she woke up to sunlight streaming through her cream-yellow curtains. She let herself cry.

And she pushed it to the back of her mind, as she always has to do, so she can live, so she can stand to look at John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson. Molly didn’t care until a month later when she started vomiting and realized her period was two weeks late. She did a blood test in the lab that came back positive. Three days later, Mycroft came to visit.

* * *

It would be safer to have the agent with them, of course, and it is no longer about Molly, but her baby. How could she possibly refuse? “Of course. What’s the agent’s name?”

“You may call him Tom. And Molly, please don’t perform blood tests on yourself any longer. The idea made... Anthea... quite anxious.”

Molly smiles at Mycroft. “Well, I’d hate to cause _Anthea_ stress.”

* * *

Mary calls Molly the next day. “Let’s get coffee,” she says without preamble.

Molly looks up from her paperwork to the ceiling.“Hi, Mary. I’m doing quite well, thank you. How are you?”

“That’s what we get coffee for, Molls. To talk about the boring stuff. Can’t do that on the phone.”

“Uh, if you had phone calls like a normal person, I think you’d find that, yes, you can.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.”

Molly shakes her head. “Okay, coffee. What about lunch instead? My break is in a half hour.”

“What a coincidence,” Mary grins (honestly, Molly can nearly hear it through the phone),” so is mine.”

“Coincidence, sure.” Being friends with Mary (and Sherlock) tends to make people stop believing in coincidence.

Molly doesn’t get coffee at lunch, opting for a non-caffeinated tea. As soon as the waitress moves out of earshot, Mary grabs her hand and whispers, “I knew it! Are you pregnant?”

“Well... yes,” Molly admits. No point in lying, she’d find out sooner or later. “How did you know?”

Mary rolls her eyes. “I’m an obstetric nurse, love. It’s my job.” Molly raises her eyebrows. “Oh, alright, I saw you didn’t drink a thing at dinner the other night with me and John, and you’ve put on a bit of weight in certain areas... I see pregnant women all the time. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist.” She waved her hand. “Never mind that, that’s not the important thing. You and Tom...” Mary gestures to the ring on Molly’s hand that suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. “You’re expecting!”

“Yes.” Molly smiles, a bit tightly, and prays Mary won’t notice.

She does.

“Margaret Elizabeth Anne Hooper, what aren’t you telling me?”

Whatever Mary did before she began working as a nurse, it made her entirely too observant for everyone else’s own good. “Nothing.”

Mary narrows her eyes. “You and I both know you won’t get off with that.”

“Mary...” Molly’s eyes fill, and she feels the hollow pit in her stomach making quite a lovely comeback. “I can’t tell you.”

And lovely Molly’s eyes are full of so much pain and loneliness... “Here, love, you don’t need to tell me, but I want you to know I can keep a secret.”

“You know Meena, she works in the lab,” Molly changes topics quickly and her tone change nearly gives Mary whiplash, but she looks at Mary significantly, and Mary understands exactly what Molly’s doing.

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, there’s this bloke, and Meena’s been in love with him for the longest time, only he won’t give her the time of day. They’re friends now, but he still doesn’t love her.”

“Oh, how sad.”

“Don’t tell Meena that!” Molly laughs, sounding a bit brittle, like caramel that’d been ever-so-slightly overcooked. “She hates being pitied. Anyway, they’ve been shagging for a bit, even though they’ve never gone on a proper date. And his job-- it’s with the government-- calls him away any time of day, and she never knows when he’ll be back. And you’ll never guess what she told me the other day.”

Mary props her chin on one hand and sounds appropriately shocked and interested, though she’s fairly sure she knows what Molly will say.

“She’s pregnant, too! By a bloke who’s never around regularly, that she’s arse-over-teakettle in love with, who doesn’t love her. It really made me think how lucky I am to have Tom.” Molly fiddles with her ring, feeling quite like it’s scorching her skin.

“Has Meena told the bloke?”

“No, that’s the worst bit. Meena has no idea where he is or when he’ll be back, and she’s no way of contacting him, isn’t even sure she wants to. He’s clever, anyway, and she thinks he’ll figure it out unprompted next time he returns.”

Mary covers Molly’s hand with her own. “Well, we’ll all have to make sure we’re there for the poor woman, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Molly smiles gratefully, feeling like she can breathe easier, like the lid on a bottle had twisted and some of the pressure hissed out. “I’m sure she’ll really appreciate it, Mary.”

* * *

Tom is unobtrusive. He sleeps at fairly normal hours, converses regularly, if sparsely, and sleeps without complaint in the guest bedroom. He always puts his dishes in the sink, keeps his things contained to his room, and most definitely doesn’t encroach on her bed.

She’d rather live with Sherlock.

Mycroft asked her, once, if she wanted him to tell Sherlock about her pregnancy. She told him, no, please don’t, don’t tell him. She couldn’t handle dealing with his upset right now, and neither could he. He didn’t need the emotional distress while trying to take down Moriarty’s network. He would find out soon, of course he would, but, well...

That’s another thing that Molly doesn’t like to think about.

“How’s your mother?” Molly asks on a Saturday afternoon.

They both know what she’s really asking.

“Mother is fine, thank you,” Mycroft tells her. “Actually, she’s going to be coming back into the country. Within the next two weeks.”

Molly drops her biscuit. Her hands go to cover her slightly swollen stomach, cupping it and feeling her baby move under her hands.

Well.

Not just her baby. Sherlock’s baby too.

Sherlock, who is coming back. Sherlock, who doesn’t know that she’s pregnant, much less with his child. Sherlock.

Mycroft asks, gently (he’s always gentle with her and Molly doesn’t know what she’s done to convince him to behave so but she’s glad for it), “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to tell Mother about the plans you’re making?”

“What’s the point?” Molly says dully. “Truth will out soon anyway.”

* * *

She’s finishing her shift in the morgue that night, putting things away, when the shadow approaches her. It might scare her, but she catches a glimpse of a blue-green eyes in the mirror and knows she has nothing to fear, not from him. Never from him.

Molly knows, just as surely, that this is the moment. He is going to know in a matter of seconds that she is pregnant and that will be it. She won’t be able to think about lovely daydreams of him going to appointments with her, being at her side when she gives birth, sleeping at her side and taking turns when the baby wakes in the middle of the night-- it will all be gone.

She takes a deep breath and turns around.

* * *

Sherlock’s eyes flash over Molly quickly. Circles under her eyes (hasn’t been sleeping well for the past few nights), hairs from Toby on the collar of her jumper (she’s let him in her bed, must be feeling lonely, hoping it’ll help her sleep), toothpaste dried at the corner of her mouth (but it’s been too long for it to be from this morning, she’s been throwing up, but she isn’t feverish, not a stomach bug), a ring he hasn’t seen before (fourth finger left hand, she’s gotten engaged, and deep inside, he hopes she’s happy-- she deserves it), and her stomach--

Well, that would explain the vomiting. Molly Hooper is pregnant, about, hmm, three, no, four months along.

“Congratulations,” he says. For some reason, he’s not as happy as he’d like to be, doesn’t like that Molly Hooper is engaged and having a baby with her fiance. She looks at him, almost expectantly. “What?” he snaps.

“I think you’re missing something.” She bites on her lip.

For once, he doesn’t care. “I need to see John.”

“You haven’t seen him yet?”

“No.” He turns his coat collar up, turns on his heel, and stalks away.

* * *

It occurs to him, two minutes and seventeen seconds later, precisely what is wrong with that picture.

Molly. Four months pregnant.

Molly. Engaged. 

Molly. Who slept with him four months ago.

He stops dead in his tracks.

Behind him, in the restaurant, people are cheering, but he barely hears it, his brilliant mind far too loud--

 _John_.

John is with a woman, and oh, that’s why people were cheering. John has proposed to the blonde woman (Mary, he knows her name is Mary) and they are engaged.

Suddenly, Sherlock is sure that although he’s never needed anyone, he needs John in this moment.

“John!” he bellows, and he shoves his way through the crowd toward the happy couple. “JOHN!”

Mary looks up first, and goes pale. “Oh my...”

John turns and sees Sherlock. His lips move soundlessly.

“Is that...?” Mary asks.

“SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES!”

John meets Sherlock, or, more accurately, John’s fist meets Sherlock’s face.

“I suppose I deserved that.”

* * *

Sherlock presses a compress to his cheek. John's fiancee (Mary-- they’re getting married, so he should probably learn this one’s name) arches a thin blond eyebrow. “Feeling better?”

“Not really,” he says sharply. “John, I need your help.”

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “You... _prat_ ,” he says slowly. “You let me believe you’re dead for _two years _, and you only come back because you need my _help_?”__

“No, of course not,” Sherlock says impatiently. “Don’t be stupid.” 

“Why,” John covers his face with his hands, “why did you do it?” 

Sherlock looks... bewildered. “ _Why_?” 

“Yes, you bastard, _why_? Why?” John shakes his head and Mary rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“He threatened you,” and Sherlock is trying to be unemotional, unaffected, but his voice shakes a little bit. “Moriarty was going to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I had no other choice.” 

Mary tilts her head to the side, and Sherlock can appreciate the intelligent glint in her steel-blue eyes for what it is. “And you didn’t come back because,” she mulls, “they were still in danger?” 

“Yes. I had to dismantle Moriarty’s network before it was safe to return.” 

John’s eyebrows draw together. “Then why do you need my help? Have you found a case already?” 

“In a manner of speaking...” Sherlock hedges. But John closes his eyes and takes his deep breath, and that’s his You’re Being Irritating As Fuck Get To The Point Sherlock breath, so he says, “Molly Hooper is pregnant.” 

“Well, yes,” John says, but there’s a dawning realization on Mary’s face. 

She looks at him. “And you’re the father.” 

John takes another deep breath. “What the _actual fuck_?!” 

* * *

Molly goes home shaking, trembling, really. (Like a little leaf, her mum would say when Molly was cold.) She is sure Sherlock knows. He missed it, yes, but she knows him, knows his mind, and knows he did not miss it for long. But he hasn’t come to her yet. She shouldn’t worry, really. She’s well aware Sherlock does his own things his own way and in his own time (rather like what people think of God, isn’t it, and the comparison works, a bit-- Sherlock’s opinion of himself is quite high), but still... 

Molly is a bit of a worrier. She never could grow out of that one. 

More than anything, she wishes she could drink some wine about now. It would be nice-- she hasn’t got work tomorrow-- to get a little drunk. Cathartic, even. 

But no. Molly opens the door to her flat and Tom “gets home” (comes in from where he was trailing her) a bit later. He takes one look at her and says, “Would you like me to make dinner tonight, Doctor Hooper?” 

“You can call me Molly.” 

“Would you like me to make dinner tonight, Molly?” 

Molly gives a thin-lipped smile. “If you don’t mind? I’m quite sure I’d burn something.” 

“I can at least manage cheese toasties.” He smiles at her and went into the kitchen. 

Tom was always very professional, even kind. Molly doesn’t know much about him, of course, not even his real name (Mycroft said she could call him Tom, and Molly is many things, but certainly not stupid, never stupid), but he’s let enough slip that she gets the impression she reminds him of someone he cares for. Between the little he’s said and the way he treats her, she suspects it’s a sister. 

She curls on the couch and flips through Netflix, hoping for something suitably terrible to take her mind off things (or maybe something funny-- as long as it’s distracting and it won’t maker her cry), when she hears a knock on the door. Her heart sinks down to her toes. She knows who it is. The only surprise is that he knocked. 

But, being Sherlock and thus utterly impatient, he doesn’t wait for Molly to get the door, no. He unlocks the door, and then he’s standing there in her little entryway, tall and dark and larger than life. “Molly,” he whispers, and it calls tears to her eyes because she wishes it didn’t sound so much like a prayer. 

Tom comes out of the kitchen, and Sherlock gives him a dismissive once-over before declaring, “MI6 agent, thirty-five, married, _gay_. You like Molly because she reminds you of your younger sister, whom you haven’t seen in a year, no, _half_ a year, and you certainly aren’t engaged to her.” 

Molly laughs, shaky with her tears, and pushes her hair out of her face. The ring on her hand glints, and Sherlock freezes. She frowns. “Are you alright...?” 

He strides forward, kneeling down to take her hand in both of his, and examining the ring. “Where did you get this? No, stupid question, it was Mycroft, _obviously_.” 

“Yes.” 

He looks up at her. “It’s my grandmother’s ring.” 

Tom chooses this moment to make himself scarce, but neither Sherlock nor Molly pay him any mind. 

“Oh!” Molly exclaims. “Oh, I can...” and she reaches toward the ring, to take it off, but Sherlock stops her. 

“No. Don’t.” And he looks at her, almost shyly. “It... suits you.” 

Her heart stutters. “Are you... you’re not...” 

He shrugs. “It’s what people do when they have a baby together, isn’t it?” 

Molly’s eyes fill with tears. “Are you proposing to me because I’m pregnant?!” 

The John inside his Mind Palace tells him that was a bit Not Good, very smugly, which he really didn’t need because Molly is _crying_ , he’d figured that out _himself_ , thank you very much. “No,” he says hastily, “no, no. I’m proposing to you because I’m in love with you.” 

She shakes her head, like she’s trying to get water out of her ear. “You... love me?” He nods. “But what happened to ‘caring isn’t an advantage’ or whatever?” 

He laughs. “I think that went out the window when I went off the roof.” 

Molly giggles wetly. “Yes, I suppose it did. Alright, then. I’ll marry you. Eventually, at some point in the future.” 

“Yes, of course,” he says hastily. 

She pulls him off his knees and kisses him, slow and sweet, then quick and short, peppering kisses all over his feet as she whispers, “I love you,” over and over again. 

Sherlock kneels down again a minute later and presses his mouth to Molly’s stomach. “I love you, too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
